


Sharpe's Guide

by InkSiren



Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [19]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Afterlife, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-typical language, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Ghosts, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSiren/pseuds/InkSiren
Summary: Richard lived a long, ultimately happy life and when it came to journey's end an old friend was waiting for him.
Relationships: Lucille Castineau/Richard Sharpe
Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034673
Comments: 9
Kudos: 4





	Sharpe's Guide

**Author's Note:**

> Listen......I don't write deathfics but I was thinking about ghosts and I got an idea and I'm so sorry.
> 
> French translations courtesy of Google so I'm sorry for that too. I am helpless with languages other than English.

The last thing Richard Sharpe heard was Lucille whisper, “ _Tout va bien mon coeur, lâchez prise_.”

He felt it was alright then, that they’d mourn but they’d be well without him, and after more than eighty years he finally... _finally_ stopped fighting.

The fighting had been good, in the end. After fighting for the king for so long, fighting to kill, he fought for himself at the last. Fought to build and protect a life, and that life had left him with two children and a woman he dearly loved by his side when it finally came time to stop. He knew he didn’t want to leave them, not really, but he was so tired and with Lucille’s blessing whispered across his forehead and his children holding his hand, he knew it wouldn’t be forever.

And so he let his last breath go, and his faithful heart finally rested.

“It is about bloody time.”

Richard startled, spinning around, feeling a healthy gallop in his chest and a lightness to his body that he hadn’t had in forty years. He was still in the bedroom he’d shared with Lucille, still dressed in the soft shirt and trousers he’d gone to rest in, but he was standing and the room was empty, streaming with sunlight that glittered through a soft, spring-smelling rain outside.

The voice had come from outside as well, and he approached the window and pushed the shutters open wider to squint into the odd weather. The yard was green and lively, dotted with flowers and ruffled with chickens, and across the way, climbing over the fence with his volley gun in one hand was Patrick Harper, looking like Richard hadn’t seen him look in decades.

“Pat?” he choked, scrambling through the window without thinking, falling to his knees and getting up again, barely noticing that the fall hadn’t hurt. He’d felt it, there had been dirt and wet grass under his feet, but he’d grown used to most things hurting near the end and now nothing did.

His throat was choked up by the time he reached the Sergeant, and any form of restraint be damned Richard had him in his arms and was holding onto him just as hard as he possibly could. Patrick had dropped his gun and was holding him back just as tightly, his laugh shaking them both.

When he pulled back, Richard was weeping, shaking his head and trying to breathe steady enough to speak. “How--Pat, is this real? Can this be real?” He clutched at the green on Patrick’s sleeves.

“We’ve both been ghosts before, sir. You tell me,” Patrick grinned, steadying Richard with a warm hand on his shoulder.

“It feels real, feels like waking up after a dream...but--” he looked back at the house, a furrow of sadness between his brows. “But I remember the dream.”

Patrick gentled, squeezing Richard’s shoulder. “Aye, sir. As do I. But they’ll wake up eventually too, and you can come back to show them the way.”

Richard turned, eyes flitting across Patrick’s features, taking in how much younger, how much healthier he appeared. “Is that why you’re here? To show me the way?”

“Well, after a manner,” Patrick said, wincing and letting go. “I haven’t actually been that way myself yet proper,” he admitted, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the horizon.

“What? Why not?”

“Well, I didn’t find out till recently you understand that you could come back so when I went and realized you were still off lagging behind in Normandy I decided to haunt you till you were ready to come along.”

Richard blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I honestly wish I were it would be less embarrassing but...” and Patrick shrugged with a chagrined look.

Sharpe stared at him. “So it were you fiddling with things round the farm?!”

“You, you stubborn bastard lived for some time before deciding to move along! What else was I to do??”

“You’re Catholic,” Richard said, like that explained things. “You’re not supposed to haunt anybody.”

“I’m Irish, and I’m dead,” Patrick said matter-of-factly, picking up his volley gun and resting his arms on the end of the barrel. “And as such I figure my time to make right with God is up. If he holds my haunting you against me, then so be it.”

“You really waited around all this time for me?” Richard asked, but he couldn’t help doing it through a wide smile. “I’m not your officer any longer, you remember that part don’t you?”

“It’s funny that even after all this time you still think I followed you because you were my officer,” Patrick said, shaking his head.

“No, Patrick, I know that weren’t it,” Richard said softly, nodding to the gun between them. “Been staving off devils with that even in death have you?”

“No, nothing so miserable as fighting here, just lots of undoing your attempts at being a farmer,” he grinned, patting the gun. “I just brought her with me in case your brain was addled and you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh leave off like I could ever forget you.”

“You’ve forgotten yours,” Patrick said, nodding to Richard’s white shirt and brown trousers. “You’d once asked to die in that jacket, remember?”

“And now my son has it to remember me by,” Richard said with a soft smile. “I don’t need it here.”

“You can wear it if you like though, to meet the lads once we catch up. Not like you’ll be taking anything from your boy.”

“Aye, that’s true…”

He looked back at the farmhouse, and when he gave a soft sigh Patrick settled something warm and familiar across his shoulders.

“There you are, now you look like yourself.”

Richard glanced over and smiled, touching the burnished silver of one of the buttons before shifting and slipping his arms into the sleeves.

“You’ll naut give me trouble about the buttons here I expect?” he asked, falling into step with Patrick as they headed back towards the fence.

“You didn’t do it for eighty years, I don’t expect I’ll get you to change now.”

Old boots clad his feet and familiar green trousers protected his legs as he threw them over the fence with a vigor he’d forgotten a man could have. For one last time, he looked back at the farm with his hand on a worn post he’d planted himself, whispered a goodbye to Lucille and his children, and thought what a good dream his life had been.

Then, finally, Richard Sharpe turned to walk side by side with Patrick Harper into the dawn.

Over the hills, and far away.


End file.
